The long
memories of trees lie
Inside rings
no longer hidden.
And though
these storm-shattered pines still stand,
They have
become bare and skeletal;
A backyard
grave marker of charred heartwood
Proclaiming
the death of us.
These
thoughts I fall into are jabbing needles
That pile up,
camouflaging the corpses of who we were
Without
concealing the shape of what still lies beneath.
I am mired in
the debris of memories;
I’d like to
rake them from my consciousness,
Yet I hold
onto them like shameful keepsakes.
I could
finish torching these relentless reminders
And scatter
them like ash on the wind,
But how would
I remember that we ever existed?
No, I’ll save
this deadfall of our leftover love
And embed the
broken branches in my mind,
Keeping these
wounds raw and bleeding;
The memories
sharp, so I never forget
That pain was
our only truth.
